


The Last Rose of Winter

by bottlebell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7070389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlebell/pseuds/bottlebell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With her family gone and her future in the hands of Petyr Baelish, Sansa takes a leap of faith with the man who crippled her brother and lead her father to his death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Rose of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 1

The Hand of the Queen grunted with pain as he used the heel of his hand to massage away the shooting pains that radiated along the length of his limbs. His joints were screaming with agony and swollen from the long hours he had been sitting on the low stone bench outside of his chambers waiting for word of how his lady wife fared. 

The Dragon Queen had made an appearance a few times to offer him words of good cheer but the screams from inside the bed chamber had caused her to retreat into a secret place in her mind and leave after only a few moments. Her memories triggered by the piercing wails of the woman inside too much for the blonde haired conqueror to handle. 

He had been warned by the maester that a woman's first time could stretch into the long hours of the night and day, but he had not believed it. His lady- the she-wolf of the North was built of stronger stuff. She would deliver promptly and be up and about in his house colours, putting all the court to shame with her delicate courtesies and doll like beauty. 

But here he was, the bench growing more cold and uncomfortable by the minute as the hours passed from darkness to day to darkness again and still no life had surged forth, only strangled cries and whimpers of a woman suffering in despair and agony. 

He debated on whether or not to enter the domain of the mid-wives, to ascertain the situation his lady was in, but for all of his brave talk and the Queen's Hand- in this instance he was too much of a coward. He was afraid to see his wife lying in that bed. He didn't want to see her pale face made even paler from her bodies endless exertions. He didn't want to see her flaming red hair dimmed and matted from the sweat and tears. And he most definitely did not want to see the ghost of his lady mother who had departed the Earth giving birth to him. He knew he would not survive seeing the Lady Joanna Lannister holding her hand out to her good daughter, beckoning her to follow and to leave behind her bed of blood and tears. 

Tyrion always believed that his wife would survive them, the Lannister's of Casterly Rock. She had survived the viscous whippings and beatings that his nephew and guards had meted out to the her when she was just a girl not even at the age of having moon's blood. She had survived the deaths of her family members each year at the hands of his family. She had even survived the humiliation and degradation of a marriage to him- the Imp. But he wasn't sure that she would survive this. 

The maesters tried to reassure him that all was well, but he knew differently as the hours passed. Sansa Stark would not survive childbirth. She would deliver an heir for Casterly Rock, but she would not recover and take her place as Lady Lannister. In his heart he understood that she didn't want to. And if anyone had a right to choose how to die, it was her. Sansa was a Stark through and through. She may have her mother's Tully looks but her heart was cleaved from the North, just as her father had been. She may have shown obedience to the family of lions, in truth, she may have even cared for some of them, but the wolf in her would never allow her to actually become one of them. 

“My Lord Hand.” Maester Qyburn interrupted his thoughts as he stepped out of the room, shutting the door to the stone chamber quietly, no sound coming from within except for the bustle of fabric. “Your lady has delivered you a healthy son.” 

Tyrion stood gingerly, ignoring the stabbing pains coursing down his stunted limbs, and reached for the gray bundle being gently held in the maester's arms. His relief at seeing the child delivered eased some of the burden weighing on his chest.

The babe was large, much larger and heavier than he anticipated. There was a shock of blonde hair from what he could see beneath the dove gray cloth that surrounded the child. As if sensing it was being watched, the babe opened it's eyes, brilliant emeralds set into the doe eyed sockets that resembled his wife. 

Gently rocking his arms, Tyrion looked back to the maester, his words pained as the man lowered his head. “And, my lady wife?”

He knew what the man was likely to say but needed to hear it anyway. 

“Lady Sansa is resting comfortably for the time being, however she will not last through another day. We have given her milk of the poppy for her pain, but there is nothing else we can do. The bleeding and the damage is just too great.” Maester Qyburn said gently, “I am sorry Lord Hand, I truly am. Her ladies should have her ready to see you very soon.” 

With a sad and pitying glance towards the door, the maester exited the tower of the hand, his black robes barely making a sound as he left. 

Looking at the babe in his arms he knew that it was finally time to become the lion his father claimed he would never be. The innocent child would need his protection and more importantly, his name. No longer would he be able to play the game of thrones and be damned the consequences of his moves. This child would need every ounce of protection the Lannister and Stark names could buy him. Much like he had told Sansa on the their wedding night, his watch was now beginning. 

It wouldn't be hard, he told himself, looking into the green eyes of the child. He had learned from his own father the things not to do when raising a child. He would offer the boy love where in his life it had been withheld. He would even offer it two-fold as the babes mother would not be around to give it as well. The boy would be raised to be a great lord with the compassion of his mother but would also have the bravery and courage of his kin that had departed this world. He would make sure that the child knew where he came from and wouldn't feel ashamed of his families combined histories. 

Taking a deep breath for strength, he pressed a kiss onto the babe's forehead and entered the chamber where his wife was preparing for her final rest. 

He wasn't sure what he expected to see when he walked in. Perhaps bloody linens strewn across the floor and the stench of death and iron in the air but what met his eyes was much better. The room had been restored to it's original state with fresh linens adorning the bed his wife lay in and the scent of lemons in the air. The babe seemed to find comfort in the space and quickly fell back to sleep without uttering a single cry. 

One of Sansa's ladies stepped forward to take the child so that he could be alone with his wife in her last hours. 

“I thank you all for the kindness and gentility you have show my dear wife. If she could, she would mirror my statements to you and give you her gratitude.” He addressed the ladies gathered with tears in their eyes. “I will ensure that you are all properly placed in noble households with mistresses as loving and as compassionate as our sweet lady.” 

After a few sniffled cries and delicate curtsies, the ladies shuffled out of the room mummering their thanks and quietly saying their goodbyes to the great lady peacefully resting in the bed. 

With the room now silent he made his way over to the great bed and took his wife's hand in his own. He expected her skin to feel clammy and cold as he had known from his time on the battlefield, but to his astonishment her creamy skin felt almost the same as it always had on the few occasions that he had touched her. The skin was still just as soft and just as warm, perhaps a bit hot with the fever burning through her body. 

“My dear lady,” he sighed heavily and smoothed his hand over her brow and into her hair. He would have wept if he could. He would weep for the loss of such courage, weep for the boy sleeping soundlessly in his arms. Mostly he would weep that her death was a sacrifice that would heal a kingdom. Her death would heal the rift between the Northron and Southron parts of Westeros with a male heir to sit at the helm of both. If he could unleash his vitriol at the gods, the new and the old, he would tell them that their price was too high, that she deserved better than what they had given and taken from her. 

He wished with all his might that things could have been different. He would give anything to go back to Winterfell all those years ago and tell Ned Stark that Robert Baratheon was not worthy of his devotion. He would have warned Lady Catelyn about the madness that rested within his nephew and the cruelty that simmered within Cersei. He would have urged them to marry their eldest daughter to one of their loyal bannermen where they could watch over her and ensure her safety and survival. He should have spoken of his suspicions to whoever would listen- the king, Ned Stark, his own father, even Sansa's bastard brother or uncle. But he had been too busy with his whores, his gold, and his resentment to notice the young girl with stars in her crystalline blue eyes and songs in her tender heart. 

Tyrion would like to believe that he did all he could for the girl, but he knew in his heart that he could have done more. After the execution of her father, he could see the tears of pain and fear in her eyes. He should have sent her away then at the nameday celebration of his nephew. He should have declared their betrothal over and sent her back to the North, the Vale to her aunt, or married her to someone else- anyone else. But he didn't. He was too focused on the next move on the chess board, of being three steps ahead of his equally manipulative sister. He helped the girl when he thought about it, but otherwise forgot her plight until Joffrey would haul her back out before the court to face more humiliation and scorn. He allowed it to continue, although he believed the blows had softened, until she became his wife. 

If he had truly wanted to save her he should have agreed to the marriage and then quickly stolen her away to Highgarden to marry the gentle Lord Willas who would have protected her with his armies and given her the life that she should have had. She would have been surrounded in beauty and softness, like her parents would have wished. Instead he had agreed to the marriage and heaped further humiliation upon her when he cloaked her with the mantle of his house. He could tell himself that he had given her the protection of his name, but he was truly no match when up against Joffrey and the Kingsguard. He couldn't have protected her bed from the sadist king and it was only through others machinations that brought forth the death of his nephew that her maidens bed was safe. 

With the poisoning of the King, he could no longer protect her from his prison cell beneath the Red Keep and she fell into an even darker waters. He still didn't know what happened to his wife at the hands of Petyr Baelish. She never spoke of him or her journey through Westeros. All he knew was that he had received word from his brother, Jaime, that he had found his lost wife at long last and would return her to him after the Dragon Queen recaptured the Iron Throne. Neither Jaime or Sansa spoke of their time together and he politely refrained from ever asking. He simply accepted what seemed to be and was relieved that there was another at his side to help protect her while he played the game. 

If he was being honest with himself, he should have acknowledged the closeness between his wife and brother. He would have seen the long looks they shared and the silent communication. He would have noticed the way that Jaime was never out of swords reach of his beautiful Northron wife, never far enough away that he couldn't reach out and grab her to safety. He would have also noticed that his wife didn't turn away from his brother when he touched her like she did with everyone else. He never acknowledged it because he knew that it wouldn't last. 

The Dragon Queen was not known for mercy or to forgive those who had wronged her. Despite the honest attempt to atone for his sins, Daenerys Targaryen only saw Jaime as the Kingslayer, the man who murdered her father. Her justice would be swift and would leave no trace behind.

So Tyrion allowed what was happening between his wife and brother, knowing that both deserved these brief moments of happiness and peace. His brother had always been under the thumb of his twin, bound for life to serve kings, prisoner, and finally crippled and defeated with the loss of his sword hand. Like Sansa, he had never been truly free and for the first time in each of their lives they were able to choose where to find happiness. 

Six moons after Jaime returned his wife to the capital the queen arrived from the wall and demanded that Jaime pay for his crimes against her and against the realm. No amount of begging or coercion was able to sway the Queen's mind. His brother, the man who always fought for him, the man who loved him when no one else would or could, was sentenced to death. 

Tyrion had been allowed to see his brother only once in the dungeons before he was lead to his execution by fire. He was prepared to hear his brother talk of their childhood and of their sister, but those words never escaped his lips. There was only one thing on his mind, Sansa. Jaime had begged him to keep her away from where his death would take place, he begged him to take her away from the capitol so that she could lead her life as she saw fit. But mostly he begged for him to show her kindness and to give their babe the life that they couldn't together. 

He promised his brother everything as he embraced him for the last time in that dark cell, tears shining in his brothers emerald eyes as he walked out the door. 

After that he had climbed the steps to the Tower of the Hand to comfort and reassure his wife that all would be well, that she would make it through another loss of a loved one, that her child would know his true father through him. Sansa had been calm and collected even as scalding tears slipped from her eyes and she rubbed soothing circles across her stomach. 

The death of his brother caused her to retreat further into her courtesies and she showed no one what lay beneath her regal bearing and gentle smiles. On rare occasions she would let her husband in, telling him stories of her youth in the North, of her parents and siblings. He thought that she was simply reminiscing, but looking at her now, covered in blankets and not even realizing that she had given birth, he knew why she spoke. 

She was telling him of her life so that he might relay it to her son when she was gone. The wolf in her just didn't have the strength to carry on after all the tragedy that had befallen her. Her heart was broken beyond repair and not even the love of a child could put it together again.

The babe in his arms stirred as the woman in the bed slowly opened her eyes. Her clear blue eyes were glassy with the heat running through her veins, but they were soft as they landed on him and her son. He knew in his heart that she would prefer to see his brother there holding their babe, but that dream, like so many others was gone, only dust on the wind. 

“The babe?” She asked, her voice barely a whisper but he heard her all the same. 

“You have a fine boy, Sansa. A very fine and healthy boy. Should you like to meet your son?” He offered, sliding closer to her on the bed. He made to transfer the boy into her arms, but her limbs were too weak to even manage the slight weight. Tyrion couldn't stand the tears lining her eyes so he moved towards the pillows and laid the baby along side her. 

His chest became heavy with emotion as he watched her examine her son with her eyes- drinking in the babes downy soft blonde hair and entrancing green eyes. Slowly, she ran her finger along the boys cheek, marveling at the softness of the skin there. 

“He's so beautiful, so pure.” She cooed, not looking up from the babe. 

He nodded his head in agreement but noticed just how much those minute movements had taken out of her. “My dear lady, can you not find it in you to continue?”

Her sigh was full of sorrow as she leaned back into the sumptuous pillows, never taking her eyes off the boy next to her. “I've one more story for you, my lord husband, if you would hear it.” 

Tyrion knew that the time had come, that the gods were now waiting to take her as their own. He placed his hand over hers, smoothing the skin at her wrist and nodded for her to continue. She might not find comfort and strength from him as his touch was not the one that she longed for, but he hoped she knew that he offered it as a friend. 

With a strength he didn't know she had, she squeezed his hand back and gazed into his mismatched eyes. 

“His name is Aeron. One night, many moons ago after he found me, Jaime said he would name his son Aeron.”

Bowing his head and agreeing to her wishes, he urged her to continue as he held onto her weakening fingers. These last few moments would be the last time that the boy would have a both a mother and his father's memory holding him close. 

“I was never so scared as I was when I climbed the rope ladder onto that boat.” She began as her eyes misted over and memories began to pull her under.


End file.
